


We still got time (Raise your hopeful voice)

by RavenXavier



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Withdrawal, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon Era, Dom/sub, Falling In Love, Feminization, Genderfluid Character, Light Bondage, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Canon Fix-It, Shaving, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 14:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4567452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenXavier/pseuds/RavenXavier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em> “Excuse-you!” came Grantaire’s offended voice from the other side of the room. “I would make an excellent wife, Monsieur Lesgle, should I choose to! I have all the qualities of one!" </em><br/> </p><p>(In which Enjolras slowly falls in love, and Grantaire takes the time to explore what feels right.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	We still got time (Raise your hopeful voice)

**Author's Note:**

> For [ Chloé ](http://sceptiqueveille.tumblr.com). My darling Chloé - There are no words to explain to you properly how much you brighten my days, and how delighted I am that we are friends. You're a wonderful, kind, wise, and corrupted lady, and I love you so much. This is rushed, and not very long, but I do hope you enjoy this. Happy birthday <3 (let's pretend that I actually posted this yesterday, as was the plan)
> 
> Thanks so much to Sovin for moral support on this and help on more practical details of the story. You're so awesome.
> 
> Title comes "Falling Slowly" of Once.

1)

“Excuse-you!” came Grantaire’s offended voice from the other side of the room. “I would make an excellent wife, Monsieur Lesgle, should I choose to! I have all the qualities of one! I’ve got light feet perfect to dance, I am not half-bad at drawing, sewing, and cooking, I know enough that some would call me smart, but I’m still so ignorant than most would call me stupid, I have mastered the art of gossip thanks to you, Monsieur, years ago, and I dare say I’ve got some talents in the bedroom - that, you cannot deny yourself. Really, if some rich man could accommodate himself of my face and what’s between my legs, well! I would call him husband and be a wife; there are many advantages that comes with being a woman.”

“And many disadvantages,” Combeferre pointed out sharply. He had obviously, like Enjolras, listened to Grantaire’s rant. “What about freedom, Grantaire? What can a wife do, apart from being a wife? What can a woman do, when from birth she is under the tyrannical rule of a father, and can only escape it by falling under the rules of a husband or God?”

“What is freedom?” Grantaire retorted with a grave air before he grinned at Combeferre widely. “There are other ways for clever women, Combeferre, which I know you are aware of, since we share some common acquaintances. This is why I will not refute your point, no! I will even admit that you are right! Only, my dear Combeferre, have some faith in me. I would only agree to marry some good, Republican man, that would have espoused the notion that every man and woman are born free; For under our shiny Republic, nothing else than perfect equality could exist, isn’t that right, Enjolras?”

Enjolras had not expected to be called out, although perhaps he should have - Grantaire liked all too much to make those little jabs. Enjolras remembered he used to be vaguely annoyed at them, the same way one could be annoy at a fly insisting on flying too close to one’s ear. Now however, fondness overrode annoyance with surprising ease.

“Of course,” he said, earning a pleased look from Grantaire, clearly happy to be indulged.

“Grantaire,” said Joly cheerfully, his hand flying to Grantaire’s chest. “You have clearly thought of everything - except for one small thing; what about your clothes? You have to know that no proper wife would go around dressed as a man. It would mean wearing dresses!”

“Why, Jolllly!” Grantaire exclaimed, looking hurt, before covering Joly’s hand with his own. “Are you saying that I wouldn’t look absolutely dashing in a dress?”

That last statement brought a sudden burst of laughter between Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire, and seemed to announce the end of that strange conversation. Enjolras, pensive, went back to his papers. Next to him, Feuilly shook his head, glancing at their friends with a fond, if slightly perplexed smile:

“And to think,” he whispered, “that everybody is quite sober!”

“Indeed,” Enjolras said quietly.

In other circumstances, he imagined he would have shared Feuilly’s feelings, as he often did. As it was, he was too distracted; he wanted to look back at Grantaire and didn’t quite dare to. Something warm (whose oddness he was starting to be familiar with) had awoken in his chest.

The vision of Grantaire, in a dress, smiling that pleased smile of his and calling Enjolras _“husband”_ lingered in his mind far after the group had parted for the night.

 

2)

Intellectually, Enjolras had known he was attracted to Grantaire for years. He had also, almost instantly, decided that It held no importance, and so any thoughts about Grantaire related to this matter had been carefully and systematically pushed back in a corner of his mind and forgotten.

Of course, it couldn’t be entirely repressed. Sometimes, as Enjolras laid in bed and felt his body reminding him quite clearly he had some needs, he would take himself in hand leisurely and let his mind wander until it settled on a scenario satisfying enough; most of them, across the years, had involved Grantaire. Most of them, in the heat of the moment, had been more than enough to push him over the edge, exciting every nerve of his body.

Most of them Enjolras could barely stand to reminisce after the act.

The truth was, distraction had never been the only reason Enjolras refused to acknowledge properly his body’s reactions to Grantaire. There was also the fact that something about Grantaire awoke the darkest parts of him. Every time Enjolras fantasized about the man, it felt like the scenarios were getting worse and worse -

Grantaire kneeling in front of him, submissive, suppliant, worshipful. Grantaire lying on a bed, legs spread wide, moaning like a whore. Grantaire gagged, Grantaire tied up, Grantaire flushed and aroused and _humiliated_. Grantaire crying while Enjolras reddened his ass to teach him respect and discipline, Grantaire begging for the whip, Grantaire begging to please him, Grantaire begging to be fucked. Grantaire licking his shoes, naked and prostrated, Grantaire lapping at the ground, Grantaire put on a leash and crawling, obedient and faithful even as Enjolras treat him only as a dog.

Since the barricades, Enjolras hadn’t spared any time for lust. There had been too much to endure first, and then to worry about, and then to plan for the future. But as November came and things quieted down enough that all of them were ready to head back to Paris finally, Enjolras’ dreams began to include Grantaire more and more.

Most of them, however, were quite different than those he used to have before. He would saw Grantaire’s face, flushed and sweaty, and his lips moving quietly, begging for something that Enjolras couldn’t give. Grantaire clinging to him as if Enjolras was the only thing in the world that still made sense. Grantaire looking at him, belief alight in his eyes as he declared loudly: “Vive la République!”

And now this, too, Grantaire smiling softly and whispering _“husband”,_ sitting on a couch and holding himself like a lady, a book on his lap and a ring at his finger.

 

3)

They’d been laying low in le Puy for six months when it was finally decided they would go back to Paris. They organized their travel with great enthusiasm, helped by Enjolras’ parents in le Puy, and Pontmercy and his future father-in-law in Paris. Bahorel, Joly and Bossuet were the first ones to leave, followed a few days later by Feuilly, Jehan, and Combeferre. At last, Courfeyrac, Enjolras and Grantaire started their own journey on a cold, grey morning, after what seemed an hour of goodbyes with Enjolras’ father, who’d kept clapping his shoulder and staring at him like he was afraid of letting him go.

Enjolras had felt like he was seventeen all over again and leaving the house for the first time. And while he understood his father’s sudden affection after the events of June, he was still quietly glad once Le Puy was behind them. Between Grantaire and Courfeyrac, there was no time for boredom, and the first day seemed to pass in a flash.

As they stopped in an inn for the night however, the mood seemed to subdue, without Enjolras being able to discern exactly why. He decided to call for an early night, which made Courfeyrac fondly roll his eyes before he dragged Grantaire with him “ _to make some new acquaintances”_. It seemed to Enjolras that Grantaire’s eyes were lingering on him, even as he let himself be pulled among strangers, his mouth distorted into his regular obnoxious smirk. Enjolras didn’t know what to make of it. He turned away.

Still. A few hours later, long after Courfeyrac had stumbled into their little room and fell quietly on the bed next to him, falling almost immediately asleep, Enjolras got up again, sleep eluding him. Grantaire was not back - it shouldn’t have been surprising, it _wouldn’t_ have been surprising, just a few months before, but things had changed. Carefully moving around as to make sure not to wake up his friend, Enjolras put his clothes back on, and got out of the room.

The loud atmosphere of the inn was gone; the only people left in the main room were the waitresses, a few men who’d fallen asleep at their tables, and some others that were still clinging to their bottle of wine and to each other. After quietly inquiring about Grantaire, one of the waitresses waved to the door. Enjolras, frowning, stepped outside.

Grantaire was not hiding. He was sitting on a bench in front of the inn, his cheeks and nose reddened by the cold, his hands buried into his coat, his eyes closed. Thinking him asleep, Enjolras moves to shake his shoulder, and startled slightly when Grantaire immediately jerked up, looking wary and confused for a few seconds before he recognized Enjolras.

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asked, brows furrowed.

“You ask the wrong question,” Grantaire answered with the shadow of a smile. “It means nothing, being alright. I could tell you a lie right now, and you would believe it; isn’t it always much easier to not question someone that says _yes, I am alright, thank you_? It’s late, and I’m a bit cold, and apparently i’ve grown unused to inns, which promises wonder once we’re back in Paris. But yes, Enjolras. I am alright, thank you.”

Enjolras took a step closer; Grantaire looked up to him curiously.

“What is the right question?” he asked.

Grantaire blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, shaking his head lightly, and turned his eyes away from Enjolras.

“Do you ever feel uneasy in your own body, Enjolras? In the way people look at you, think of you, in the way you think of _yourself_?

“I.. cannot say I do, really,” Enjolras replied carefully. “I am happy with who I am, and I rarely pay attention to what others might think of me.”

This made Grantaire laugh, but it didn’t sound happy at all. Something twisted in Enjolras’ stomach. It’d been a long time since Grantaire hadn’t looked so sad or bitter, or at least it felt like it, and Enjolras couldn’t say he had missed it at all.

“Of course you do,” Grantaire ended up saying, some shadow of fondness piercing through the bitterness of his voice. “You have every reason to be happy with yourself.” There was a moment of silence, and then Grantaire sighed. “I miss drinking the most in those moments. It quiets my brain. I was quite happy not having those same thoughts turning over and over again in my mind, do you know. And what is a man to do in an inn when he doesn’t have a drink in his hand? I’m afraid I make a sad companion nowadays.”

“I’ve seen you quite cheerful with our friends lately, even without the wine,” Enjolras said instead of his first, instinctive answer _“i like you better sober_ ”.

“That’s because our friends are another addiction all together,” Grantaire hummed. “A much more pleasant one for everyone, I assume. I wouldn’t let go of this one for anything in the world, in any case. I’m afraid you’re all stuck with me until you throw me out for good.”

“We wouldn’t,” Enjolras said, almost sharply. “You’re one of us.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said and finally looked at him again. There was something like desperation in his eyes. “You’re seeing something in me that isn’t there.”

Enjolras licked his lips and raised his hand, curling his fingers around Grantaire’s neck, his thumb caressing Grantaire’s jaw.

“I think that I’m seeing something in you that neither of us knew existed a few months back,” he said, his voice soft. “I can only hope that you end up seeing it in yourself too, one day.”

Grantaire let out a shaky breath. Enjolras almost bent over; he almost pressed his lips against his and then thought better of it. Grantaire was upset, and Enjolras himself was unclear about his own feelings. Perhaps - Perhaps there would be time for this later. Right now, there were more urgent matters.

“Come on,” he gently said. “You’re freezing. Let’s go to our room.”

When he pulled Grantaire by the wrist to the inn, Grantaire followed in silence, staring at him with a question in his eyes that Enjolras didn’t know if he could answer just yet.

 

4)

In between the dawning realization that the people hadn’t come to join them, the short discussion that had followed leading to a plan to get everybody evacuated, the escape itself and then his time in prison, there was only one moment that Enjolras could recall with sharp clarity; he remembered every second, every feeling and sensation, every little detail. Some nights, as sleep refused to come once again, the memory of it lingered persistently behind his closed eyelids.

It felt like a scar - only Enjolras didn’t feel pain when it suddenly reminded him that it existed; only a sensation of warmth, and a little bit of pride and, perhaps more importantly, _hope._

Enjolras, on the sixth of June, had been prepared to die - had thought he would die, and had accepted it. Most of the insurgents had disappeared through the little street that served as an escape road. There was smoke in the air; the morning was grey, and it was both hot and humid. Enjolras had just seen Feuilly leave at last, and when he’d turned around, the national guard had taken over the barricade. The fight that had followed was short and abrupt. Very few people had decided to stay; in a matter of minutes, Enjolras alone was still alive, pushed back against the wall of the Corinthe.

He’d thrown his weapon at his feet, an odd sense of calm taking over him. Death had never scared him. He’d thought of his friends, alive and safe, as he’d answered the questions of the soldiers. A battle was ending this morning with him; the fight will continue with them.

“En joue!” had yelled one of the soldiers.

“Wait!” had shouted a voice from inside the restaurant.

The world had seemed to freeze. A second later, Grantaire was stumbling outside. He’d glanced at the national guard, then at Enjolras - and Enjolras’ heart had missed a beat as Grantaire straightened up, determination written all over his face, and he’d walked to Enjolras, looking at him and only at him, with a flame in his eyes that Enjolras had never seen before:

“I’m one of them, I’m with him! Vive la République!”

The words had rang loud and clear in the deafening silence of the abandoned barricade. Grantaire had stopped next to Enjolras, opened his mouth again, and seemed suddenly shy. Enjolras had grabbed his hand; he’d began to smile -

And then someone else had shouted: “Prisoners! New orders, we need to take everyone still alive as prisoners!”

(Enjolras hadn’t let go of Grantaire’s hand for as long as he could.)

 

5)

A few days before Christmas, Joly and Musichetta married each other rather hastily, with the reluctant benediction of Joly’s very Christian parents, who liked the idea of their son marrying a girl far below his station somewhat better than their son leaving a pregnant girl alone in the world. Musichetta, indeed, was showing a very round stomach. According to her, the baby would arrive very soon, sometimes in January. She hadn’t said a word to Joly and Bossuet about it during those long months away, unsure if they would ever come back to Paris and to her.

The wedding was humble and lovely. Bossuet stood very close to Joly as they both recite vows to cherish and love Musichetta until death do them apart. Joly said them out loud - Bossuet only mouthed them off. Both of them were beaming at Musichetta, who was beaming right back at them. After the Church, Joly’s parents didn’t linger, although their stern faces had softened sometimes during the ceremony. Madame Joly hugged her son tightly, and even kissed her new daughter-in-law on the cheek, looking awkward but genuine about it.

There was a party, of course; Courfeyrac and Bahorel had organized everything. Courfeyrac had offered enough money to the Musain’s patrons that they’d left them the establishment all for themselves for the night, and Bahorel had taken care of the decorations. As for the food, Musichetta’s friends had taken care of it. To Enjolras’ surprise, it seemed that she knew both Louison, who worked here, and the two waitresses of the Corinthe, Matelote and Gibelote. The three of them were present that night, as well as a few other ladies that Enjolras didn’t know.

Enjolras wasn’t really the sort to enjoy those celebrations loudly, by drinking or by dancing. It was enough for him to be part of this little group of people, and to know they were all happy. After he’d paid his compliments to the newly weds, he retreated to a table with a smile on his face, and mostly enjoyed the cheerful atmosphere in silence, observing his friends with the utmost fondness.

Combeferre, Jehan and Feuilly all came at one point or another to sit next to him. Joly and Bossuet, not surprisingly, were all over Musichetta, who kept laughing at them. Courfeyrac insisted on dancing with every lady in the room, and so did Grantaire. They had a hard time prying Bahorel’s mistress away from his arms. Both of them were enjoying each other quite a lot.

Towards the end of the evening, the mood seemed to shift into something quieter, if still pleasant. Grantaire, his cravat undone, his hair in disarray, his cheeks flushed by the dancing, fell on the chair next to him and offered him a quick, crooked smile.

“I am so absolutely certain that you’re an excellent dancer, Enjolras,” he accused him gaily. “No man with the kind of education you had grows up without learning dancing steps. Are you that removed from us all on Earth, that you won’t move from your seat, or is that fear that one dance with a lady would compromise your chaste reputation? Surely you must know that everybody in this room, and I include our friends, would never refuse you a dance.” he put his elbow on the table, pressing his cheek against his open palm, and kept staring at Enjolras, even as he continued, almost dreamily: “Or perhaps you are like one of those creatures from old legends from the North. Fae. You fell in love with the human world, and doesn’t dare dancing because you know that humans cannot stop to dance once they agreed to a faery’s invitation, and you wish to avoid us the pain of dancing until our feet cannot hold us anymore.”

“It seems you have discovered my darkest secret,” Enjolras said dryly, startling a laugh out of Grantaire, who had clearly not expected him to play along.

“I’ll keep it for myself,” he said, still grinning. “Still, it’s a shame. I understand now why you’re so serious all the time; you are deprived of the greatest thing humans have to amuse themselves.”

“I’m quite pleased right now all the same,” Enjolras retorted lightly. “This is a lovely wedding.”

His eyes wandered back to Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta. They were cramped together on two chairs, Joly sitting on Bossuet’s lap, and their hands were all intertwined together on Musichetta’s stomach. They were talking between them, looking at each other with such a loving gaze that it was hard to stare too long.

Grantaire sighed. Enjolras brought his attention back to him.

“When we learnt about Musichetta,” Grantaire said, “I thought for sure something bad ought to happen. Joly’s parents would never accept the match. Bossuet had no one to ask for permission, but he also had no money at all. At some point, I almost convinced myself that in the worst case scenario, I would marry Musichetta myself; my parents are disappointed in me already, they wouldn’t have made a scandal; and I’m rich enough for a family.”

Enjolras stiffened; Some part of him could only admire Grantaire’s sense of loyalty and friendship. Another one, though, loathed with fervent passion the idea of Grantaire married to Musichetta. Grantaire, apparently oblivious to this, grinned at him again suddenly and waved at the happy couple.

“And then, this happened! Who would have thought? I was half-persuaded that I would become a husband, someone respectable, when Joly’s parents agreed to the marriage. Really, with all the luck that our little group have lately, I am at risk of becoming an optimist at last.”

“What would the world come to?” Enjolras smiled, and Grantaire snorted. “I’m happy everything settled for the best,” Enjolras added impulsively. “I was under the impression that your dreams of marriage involved you becoming a wife rather than a husband.”

Grantaire jerked up at that, any trace of amusement fading from his face. Enjolras frowned - he hadn’t meant to upset Grantaire; really, he didn’t know clearly what he had intended to happen, but it wasn’t this, Grantaire suddenly frozen, looking at him almost warily. He opened his mouth to apologize for any offense, but then Grantaire abruptly shook his head and talked first, his voice soft and strained:

“There are some dreams that can only stay dreams. I am afraid I’m lacking several essential things for this particular one to become true; even as new optimist, Enjolras, I see no possible way.”

There was no sarcasm, no lying, no pretense in this statement, although it seemed to imply, between the words, something more. Enjolras, careful, raised his hand and curled it around Grantaire’s fingers. They were shaking. When Grantaire looked up to him, Enjolras said very quietly:

“I think you would look lovely in a wedding dress.”

Honesty for honesty.

Grantaire didn’t say a word, but the way he held Enjolras’ hand tightly for the rest of the night told Enjolras more than enough.

 

6)

Cramped in a jail cell with ten other men, there were things you learnt about someone; It wasn’t necessarily things you would have liked to know, of course. The way they smelled without the possibility of a bath, the way they reacted to hours of nothing, to hunger and to fear.

Enjolras learnt that Grantaire smelled terrible, like all of them, and yet he stayed very close to him. He learnt that Grantaire still ranted, still laughed a bit too loudly, still glanced around the room, discreetly pleased, when people paid attention to him. He learnt that Grantaire snorted in the face of hunger and even offered him the meager, terrible meals they got irregularly, insisting that Enjolras was only bones, while Grantaire was a bit too much fat. He learnt the way Grantaire nuzzled his arm in his sleep and snored sporadically, his fingers clinging to Enjolras’ dirty coat more often than not.

He learnt that when Grantaire started to shake, three days or so after they’ve been locked in and seemingly forgotten by higher authorities, it wasn’t because of fear at all.

If the guards seemed to care very little about one sick man, they couldn’t ignore the constant yelling and complaining of the eight others sharing his room. When the guards were inevitably overwhelmed and annoyed, once they were properly lost on what to do, for the infirmary was still full of injured rebels that had been brought here, Enjolras rose up, and took advantage of it. He gave orders that sounded like protestations, suggestions that might have resembled a plea, and after several hours, he was alone with Grantaire is a tiny isolation room, with very little light and yet oddly warm.

Enjolras learnt that Grantaire’s love for the bottle might not have been as much of a choice as he’d thought for several years. He learnt by heart the way Grantaire cried and begged, hold Grantaire’s sweaty body against him to stop him for hurting himself, listened to Grantaire’s incomprehensible babbling, names and references and quotes and confessions, and watched over his restless sleep, getting very little of it himself.

The day Grantaire started seeing things that weren’t there, moving away from Enjolras with no recognition in his eyes and curling up around himself, unnaturally quiet, shaking hard and vomiting blood, Enjolras learnt that the thought of Grantaire dying terrified him.

Grantaire didn’t remember, later, and Enjolras would kept it for himself - but that day, when one guard had showed up to give them a meal (he only brought one for the both of them), Enjolras had quietly pleaded: “Please, bring him wine. He needs wine.”

The guard had snorted: “Wine won’t do him any good. Your friend is almost dead. Only thing he needs is a priest.”

A day later, Grantaire’s fever had broken.

 

7)

Marius’s wedding felt like a real play. Enjolras, who had never been interested in theater much, thought longingly about Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta’s simple wedding for most of the day. Bahorel and Grantaire looked delighted by every single thing: the royalists so easily offended, the mysterious parents of the bride, Marius’ over-enthusiastic and offensive grandfather, the grandiose house, everything seemed to be straight out of a comedy, or perhaps a novel.

For the most part of the night, Marius and his new wife, Cosette, had only eyes for each other. They only parted from each other when Cosette was swept into the arms of Marius’ grandfather for a dance, while Marius, looking awkward and very serious, lead his new mother-in-law on the dancing floor. Afterward, there was a small scandal as Cosette realized her father had disappeared without saying goodbye, and she only stopped looking upset when Courfeyrac suddenly climbed on a chair and gave a beautiful speech to the newly weds.

Marius and Cosette were crying at the end of it. Courfeyrac disappeared into their arms. Enjolras suspected he was sobbing too.

Joly, Bossuet, and Feuilly left early. Both of them were new fathers, after all, and had obligations. As for Feuilly, he had found work again, with a slightly better pay, thanks to Marius’s aunt, who was apparently highly-impressed by Feuilly’s fan designs. He had to get up early in the morning. Once he was gone, Enjolras seriously contemplated going home. However, he’d made a promise to Courfeyrac the day before, and so he stayed.

Combeferre and Prouvaire seemed to have disappeared; Bahorel was charming some old ladies near the banquet of desserts. Grantaire was talking with Cosette’s aunt (probably, Enjolras thought, to get more information on her - having listened to his friends’ speculations earlier, he knew they weren’t sure if the lady was, indeed, Cosette’s aunt, or someone else entirely). Enjolras found himself trapped by three young ladies, giggling and batting their eyes at him.

“Monsieur, how mysterious, you won’t even tell us your name!”

“You have to dance with one of us, Monsieur, you must!”

“You have beautiful hair Monsieur. Here, have a flower, and then you will look exactly like the hero of this novel -”

From across the room, Enjolras met the mocking look of Grantaire. Leaving more or less politely the three girls behind, he walked to him, earning a surprised but pleased rise of eyebrows, and when he was near enough, he offered his hand to him;

“Will you dance with me?” he asked.

Grantaire flushed, clearly taken aback; he laughed, but it sounded a little strangled.

“Have I offended you so, that you wish to see me dance until my last breath?” he exclaimed.

“Not yet,” Enjolras answered, observing him carefully. “There is not a lot of good company tonight, to tell you the truth. I thought we could - meet each other halfway. You’ll have a dance partner, and I will have a good conversationalist.”

“We might offend the sensibilities of some,” Grantaire breathed out, his lips twitching, his cheeks reddening somewhat even more, his eyes shining brightly.

“A pleasant side-effect, no?” Enjolras smiled.

Grantaire laughed again. This time, it sounded perfectly honest and gleeful. Enjolras grabbed his fingers lightly, and they joined the dancers. Grantaire licked his lips, nervous for half a second, and then seamlessly slide on the ladies’ side of the dancing line. Despite what Enjolras had just said, very few words were spoken; they grinned at each other when a few ladies gasped outrageously; they touched, perhaps just a bit more than necessary; Enjolras’ fingers always lingered a beat too long. Grantaire never protested.

At the end of the dance, hands tightly clasped together, Enjolras felt it, pounding his chest, in his veins, in his mind - _love_. They didn’t wait for the few annoyed men who had been eyeing them dangerously to come to them. Enjolras pulled them outside, in a perfectly well-kept garden, and Grantaire followed, still flushed, a delighted giggle escaping him.

Once he was sure they were alone, Enjolras stopped. He looked at Grantaire, his breathing slightly faster, and then, without a word, he bent over and kissed him.

He hadn’t intended for much more than a brush of lips; but Grantaire made a small, whimpering noise and followed him instinctively when he tried to move away, and soon they were kissing each other fervently, if carefully; Enjolras had not much experience in the subject - never did Grantaire, it seemed. They learnt each other slowly but enthusiastically, still holding hands, their bodies pressed against each other.

They only parted hastily when a loud sound resonated near them, afraid of being caught, and realized a second too late that it was nothing but the wind knocking a small flower pot to the ground. Enjolras snorted, and looked back at Grantaire. His lips were red and bitten, his cheeks pink, his eyes completely, unashamedly adoring. Enjolras’ heart missed a beat.

“Enjolras,” said Grantaire, his voice soft and full of wonder. “Enjolras,” he repeated, a bit helplessly, like he wanted to say so much more and couldn’t remember a single word apart from this one.

“Grantaire,” murmured Enjolras.

Grantaire let his forehead fell against Enjolras’ chest, and laughed.

 

8)

By the time Enjolras’ parents arrived, Enjolras had lost the count of days. In a room mostly black-pitched, with a sick man as sole companion, it was easy to forget. He slept fretfully, and never left Grantaire’s side, even if Grantaire rolled his eyes and told him softly he was alright. The fact that sometimes Grantaire was still coughing a bit of blood, however, and that he could barely stand on his own, didn’t give much credit to his words.

It was a relief, seeing his parents. Both of them looked furious as they took in his appearance, and yet hugged him as if he was still a child, and promised they would do anything necessary to make sure Enjolras get out with no consequences. Enjolras thought of Grantaire, lying in the cell, watching him go with a sort of resigned, bittersweet expression, and said: _“Not just me, please._ ”

Until the very end, Grantaire kept acting like there were never going to see each other again. Enjolras grew frustrated;

“You’re a member of Les Amis,” he snapped. “You’re family, you’re not being left behind, R, and I swear if I hear another goodbye from you -”

“Alright,” Grantaire cut him off, his eyes suddenly soft. “Alright.”

A few days later, outside for the first time since apparently three weeks, Grantaire hesitated again. Enjolras had wondered, later, what would have happened if he hadn’t pulled Grantaire firmly by the wrist and kept him at his side while his parents were explaining to them that they’d already sent off everybody to Le Puy for safety. Where would Grantaire have gone? Musichetta? Louison? Another lady?

He couldn’t linger on it too long. The fact was that Grantaire had climbed on the carriage with him the next morning, and fell asleep against his shoulder soon after. Enjolras’ shoulders had relaxed at the new familiarity of it.

“Oh, my dear,” he’d heard his mother whisper as he finally managed to close his eyes and sleep. He’d thought nothing of it at the time, only enjoying freedom and Grantaire’s warmth against him.

 

9)

March was awful that year, the sky perpetually grey and crying, the wind cold and unforgiving. Grantaire kept laughing about it;

“It’s better this way,” he grinned at Enjolras. “There is more incentive to keep you in bed with me.”

Enjolras looked him over, gloriously naked and entangled in Enjolras’ bed sheets, his black curls falling messily on his shoulders, his neck and torso full of bite marks, his whole body screaming contentment, his eyes shining with happiness, and then he raised his eyebrows:

“I don’t need rain to stay right here,” he said.

“How romantic,” Grantaire hummed, and languidly stretched, clearly having no idea of how alluring he was - or perhaps a little, since he added almost as an afterthought, his voice wicked: “You look like you’ve got ideas, sir.”

“Oh I do,” Enjolras said calmly, softly moving his hand up Grantaire’s thigh. “I want to bring you to the edge,” he continued, his fingers reaching Grantaire’s cock, earning a low gasp as he started stroking it slowly. “Again, and again, and again, without actually letting you have your release.”

“That’s cruel,” Grantaire retorted, sounding breathless already.

“You’re not saying no,” Enjolras pointed out, leaning over him seriously.

“I like your kind of cruelty,” Grantaire said with a grin, and Enjolras kissed him hard, biting his lips on purpose just to hear him whimper loudly.

Enjolras had had a taste of Grantaire; he couldn’t stop wanting more. In over a month, it felt like he’d always had Grantaire with him in his bed. And yet there was something new to learn about him every day still; Grantaire in bed was sweet, pliant, obedient - he followed Enjolras’ instructions with a teasing grin and soft eyes, and was perhaps even more enthusiastic than Enjolras about any manhandling.

“I used to dream,” he’d whispered one night to Enjolras’ chest, “that you would use me just like this, all the time. You’d keep me chain to the bed, and would only come to me when you needed relief.”

“Grantaire, I wouldn’t -” Enjolras had whispered, almost harsh, guiltily feeling his cock hardening at the thought of Grantaire chained up, waiting just for him, always.

“I know you wouldn’t,” Grantaire had said hastily. “It’s a fantasy, Enjolras. I had a lot of those. I _have_ a lot of those. They would probably all shock your egalitarian sensibilities, though, so I should keep them for myself.”

Grantaire’s voice had gotten boisterous. Enjolras, these days, could hear the note of insecurity behind it. So he’d pinned Grantaire to the bed suddenly and then he’d started talking about everything he wanted to do to him. He would have stopped, if Grantaire had told him to - but despite looking embarrassed at times, it wasn’t long until Grantaire was hard against Enjolras, his whole body flushing, his eyes dark with arousal. So Enjolras had kept holding his wrists firmly and said: _Now you tell me._

As it turned out, they had a lot of fantasies in common.

So they spent a lot of time in bed that first month, and Enjolras let himself fall deeper and deeper for Grantaire with every new show of trust as they tried out things, every new pleased smile, every new rant. He welcomed everything easily, until the idea of not coming home to find Grantaire somehow already there only meant that Grantaire was already _with_ him.

For all that, Enjolras hadn’t forgotten his work. If anything, he pushed himself back into les amis de l’ABC with renewed fervour, Combeferre and Courfeyrac faithful at his side. It’d been nine months now since the barricades and their failed insurrection. Far from Paris, there had been little they could do, apart from making sure that there were still allies to talk with, and that the spirit of their ideals hadn’t been crushed. Now, however, things were starting to move back into place again - the laws against Republicans were getting harsher. At the Louvre, _La Liberté guidant le peuple_ had disappeared.

“We scared them,” Courfeyrac said, looking satisfied. “We didn’t succeed, but we scared them.”

“We’ll have to be even more careful now, though,” Combeferre said quietly. “We were lucky once. I do not want to put our chances on Fate again.”

“Next time we fight,” Enjolras declared, “We will have our Republic.”

There were new people to meet, new informants to find, new places to meet at. All of this kept Enjolras busy enough, and yet it seemed sometimes as if Grantaire was the busiest of them.

They very rarely talked about politics - Grantaire had only mentioned, once or twice, buildings deemed safe enough for meetings, and had kept it at that even though he still came at every single one of their reunions. Politics being implicitly banned in the house, Grantaire spoke of his own days - generally another impossible adventure with Joly and Bossuet (sometimes with the baby) or some afternoons spent with his ladies friends. Enjolras didn’t know what he did with the ladies. Grantaire avoided the subject without any subtlety, declaring that Enjolras would be forced to look interested if Grantaire told him, and neither of them wanted this.

Enjolras had suspicions, however, that confirmed themselves one night as he got home early and found Grantaire in the kitchen, watching over a casserole.

“Hello,” Grantaire grinned when he grabbed his hips.

Enjolras only stared at him for a moment. His heart was beating very fast in his chest when he raised his hand and caressed Grantaire’s lips with his thumb.

“You still have some red right there,” he whispered.

Grantaire stilled, his eyes widening.

“Enjolras -” he said.

Enjolras kissed him. Grantaire gasped against his mouth and then put his hands on his shoulders, clinging to him as Enjolras pushed him against the kitchen’s counter. They stayed like this for several minutes, until Grantaire moved slightly away, pupils wide.

“Can we pretend?” he asked. “Can we pretend that I’m -” the words got stuck in his throat. He waved at his lips.

“We don’t have to pretend,” Enjolras said. “Didn’t I just come home to my wife?”

Grantaire took a sharp breath; and then, he laughed shakily:

“And here I thought I was a mere mistress; You take everything so seriously,” he said, and then grinned helplessly. “I adore you, _husband_.”

The casserole burnt.

 

10)

Grantaire being in love with him was perhaps the worst kept secret among Les Amis.

Enjolras had known for years - but not reciprocating the feelings in the slightest, and being aware that bringing it up would only make any situation more awkward, he had pushed it back in a corner of his mind until it was just one of those details that you knew about friends and not necessarily pay attention to because you were so used to them -

Thus Grantaire was tiny, Grantaire boxed, Grantaire drank, Grantaire knew every café of Paris, Grantaire bragged and ranted and laughed loudly, Grantaire made witty puns, Grantaire loved his friends, and Grantaire was in love with him.

Before the barricades, before the jail cell, Enjolras had simply not cared as much as he would have had with another of les Amis. Grantaire was one of them, yes, but most days, Enjolras still wondered why.

In le Puy, for the first time, Enjolras had discovered he could not ignore Grantaire like he used to. If Grantaire was in a room, he was immediately aware of the way he hold himself, the way he talked, and moreover, what he talked about. If Grantaire was not there, some part of Enjolras kept wondering if he was alright and if so, why wasn’t he with them. It didn’t take him long to realize that he was much more patient with Grantaire’s obnoxious manners because he could perceive Grantaire’s insecurities behind them. He smiled more easily at his jokes, understood more behind Grantaire’s seemingly nonsensical babbling. He liked it when he could feel Grantaire’s eyes on him sometimes, soft and tender and barely discreet.

Enjolras didn’t say anything. He took his time instead, observing Grantaire and analyzing his own feelings. Grantaire was in love with him, and Enjolras -

Well, for the first time since Enjolras had understood it, he found that he _liked_ it.

 

11)

By the time May ended, there were several dresses in their wardrobe; beautiful, soft, and untouched. Enjolras sometimes caught Grantaire looking at them, and didn’t say a word, aware that this was something he couldn’t fully understand, and that Grantaire needed to choose whether he wanted to wear them by himself.

Still, Enjolras suspected that it might happen sooner or later. Grantaire had been embracing femininity carefully but steadily over the past few months; he wore red on his lips and blush on his cheeks often; he made a show, sometimes, of leaving a room while proclaiming he needed “to powder his nose”. His hair now were longer than Enjolras’s. Not long ago, he had stridden into one of their meetings, boisterous and loud, with an elaborate hairstyle that Enjolras had seen Cosette wear a few times. Bahorel had congratulated him on following the latest fashions. Bossuet had tipped his hat at him. Enjolras had kissed the back of his hand with a smile. Grantaire, cheeks pink, had sat next to him with his pleased, happy smile.

Although there were still days where nothing lady-like seemed to appeal to Grantaire in the slightest, they were becoming rarer. In the privacy of their rooms, Enjolras liked all too much to use the word _wife_ , if only for the way it made Grantaire react, every time - but also, he had to admit to himself, because it simply felt true most of the time. He couldn’t consider Grantaire a simple lover, nor a mistress - Grantaire lived with him, slept in his bed, decorated the place, made sure they were both well-fed; the only thing missing was a ring on his left hand; he was Enjolras’ wife, and Enjolras loved it.

Perhaps it was because this felt so natural - perhaps because everything else had seemed to go seamlessly -, but the day Enjolras found Grantaire staring down at his naked chest with empty eyes, a dress and a corset laid out on the bed next to him, a razor in his hands, he was completely taken aback and, for a few seconds, deeply afraid. He knew about Grantaire’s moods, of course; he’d seen the way Grantaire’s dislike of himself, his deep insecurities, played tricks on his mind; he’d spent days gently caring for Grantaire when Grantaire refused to leave the bed, muttering he was too tired. Enjolras knew just enough that the combination of such a quiet, absent Grantaire and the razor made his heart jumped in his throat.

“Grantaire?” he called softly. “What’s going on?”

Grantaire looked up to him; his eyes were shiny.

“I’m not a woman,” he said, clearly upset, and then, before Enjolras could find something to tell him, he continued quickly, blinking a lot: “It’s so sunny outside, lately - I wanted to go out with you, I wanted - as your _wife._ But women don’t have hair on their chests, so I thought, I would get rid of them but I can’t - I am not a woman; hair won’t change that. Do I even want to change that? I don’t know, Enjolras, I don’t _know_.”

Enjolras walked to the bed and sat next to him, curling his hand around Grantaire’s wrist. Then he said, carefully, unsure he was saying the right words:

“Hair grow back, R. You can mold your body into whatever pleases you but it shouldn’t dictate whether you feel man or woman.”

“What if it’s both?” Grantaire asked in a whisper. “What if I don’t know, what if one day it feels right, and the next it’s awful?”

“Then it’s both,” Enjolras says. “Whatever your feelings are, they’re valid, since no one can know this better than yourself. Whoever you chose to be, day after day, you are still you and I love you. No matter what.”

“Wife or husband?” Grantaire asked.

“Wife or husband,” Enjolras said honestly.

Grantaire sighed, and then let his head fall on Enjolras’ shoulder.

“Well now, that’s ridiculous, we’re not even really married,” he pointed out lightly. “I don’t even recall you courting me at all, Monsieur Enjolras.”

“You find me deeply contrite,” Enjolras said with a small smile. “Would you like to take a walk with me, then? I’ve been told the weather was quite nice today.”

“I would like to,” Grantaire said, but his voice was serious once more. “And the dress… I’d like the dress, too. But this -” he waved a bit helplessly at his chest. “I want to, but I can’t…”

“Would it be easier if I did it?” Enjolras suggested impulsively.

Grantaire straightened up again to look at him, clearly taken aback. Enjolras’ fingers moved to the razor and stopped there.

“Would you trust me to do it?” Enjolras asked softly.

“More than myself, probably,” Grantaire admitted, still too surprise to be anything but genuine.

“Alright then,” Enjolras said, and leant in to kiss Grantaire. “Why don’t you lay on the bed?” he said against his lips. “I’ll take care of it.”

They moved efficiently. Enjolras carefully put the dress on a chair, and Grantaire laid on his back, breathing loudly, staring as Enjolras went to retrieve a bowl of water, a soft towel, and the shaving soap. Handling himself carefully, Enjolras put his hands into the water, rubbing the soap between them, and then quickly rose up and started spreading the mixture on Grantaire. Grantaire was hairy - much more than Enjolras himself. Enjolras repeated his gesture two times, and ended up stopping and frowning when Grantaire kept fidgeting.

“Is this uncomfortable?” he asked. “You should tell me now if you’d rather not do it.”

“No, no,” Grantaire said immediately. “I’m just - perhaps slightly overwhelmed.”

“It’ll be dangerous if you move like that when I’ve got the razor,” Enjolras said seriously.

“Perhaps we should just make sure I keep still, whether i want it or not,” Grantaire suggested. His smile was teasing, but Enjolras didn’t dismiss the remark, if only because there was a hint of begging in Grantaire’s eyes that he’d learnt to recognize quite well.

“It would be more practical,” he decided, observing carefully Grantaire. “I should tie you up to the bed.”

“Your wish is my command, sir,” Grantaire said; his grin was softer.

Enjolras quickly finished covering his chest with the shaving soap, dried his hands with the towel, and grabbed two of his cravats. He kissed Grantaire’s wrist before wrapping the first cravat around it, and then tied it up expertedly to the bedpost.

“Alright?”

Grantaire nodded; his eyes were half-closed. Feeling impossibly fond, Enjolras bend over him, brushing his lips against his, and when Grantaire instinctively tried to rise up to kiss him properly, he smiled and straightened up, moving on the other side of the bed to tied up his second hand. Once he was done, he didn’t ask again how Grantaire felt - his entire body radiated contentment and his shoulders were relaxed - it meant more pressure on his wrists, and would probably leave a mark - which Grantaire knew; Enjolras suspected he liked to have those small physical reminders of their activities.

After sitting back in the same position he was before, Enjolras finally took the razor in hand. He looked over Grantaire one last time, a warm feeling flooding in his chest in front of such an open show of trust, and then, very carefully, he put the razor against Grantaire’s skin and started to shave him.

He took his time - he had shaved Grantaire’s face already, a few times, since Grantaire had decided to do it practically every day, but this felt highly different. There was more to cover, or rather to take out, and Enjolras couldn’t bear to think about the possibilities if he made the wrong movement. A few times, Grantaire whimpered at the sensation of the cold blade, but he never asked Enjolras to stop and stayed very still for him. The moment was very quiet; once he’d finished his work on Grantaire’s stomach, Enjolras hesitated a second, then brushed his fingers against the bush above Grantaire’s cock.

He made the decision quickly. When Grantaire felt his fingers come back full of shaving soap again, spreading it so close to his cock, he gasped. Enjolras stilled.

“You are aware that women have hair too in this area, don’t you?” Grantaire said, stretching a bit to look up at Enjolras, his cheeks very red, his smile just on the verge of disbelief. “I do not think they ever shave it.”

“How would I know?” Enjolras retorted calmly. “You’re the first woman I’ve seen naked.”

A low noise escaped Grantaire’s throat; he flushed even more.

“Oh go on then,” he said, sounding needy rather than amused or dismissive. “You know how to use your words too well.”

Enjolras smiled, and went back to work; it went quicker this time, even though he had gone even more carefully. Once he was done, he moved away from Grantaire, caressing his cheek when Grantaire made a little sound of protest, and went to get clean water. Then he gently untied Grantaire’s wrists, dipped the towel into the water, and rubbed it gently against Grantaire’s clean-shaven skin. Even freed, Grantaire didn’t move, observing Enjolras languidly. It wasn’t until even that was over that slowly, very slowly, Grantaire raised his hand and touched his chest, letting out a shaky breath as he did.

“How does it feel?” Enjolras asked.

“Soft,” Grantaire answered, and then he suddenly sat up, grabbed Enjolras by the arm, and kissed him hard. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you,” and kissed him again.

Enjolras put his hand on the back on his neck and kissed him back happily. Grantaire very rarely took the initiative when it came to physical affection, only getting very close to Enjolras when he wanted to be touched - the only exception to that was the little kisses on the cheek that he’d gotten used to give each time Enjolras left home without him, getting on his tiptoes to reach him. They stayed like that for what seemed forever, until Grantaire let his head drop on Enjolras’ shoulder, breathing hard.

“What do you want, now?” Enjolras asked.

“I want to get dressed,” Grantaire said, sounding decided.

“Alright,” Enjolras nodded.

They both finally get off the bed. Grantaire moved to the dress, still gloriously naked. Enjolras eyed him with a smile - while he didn’t doubt that Grantaire would look amazing in a dress, there was very little he liked more than to see him moving around with no clothes on. Grantaire caught him staring as he grabbed the first shirt, and grinned, arching his back just a little. Enjolras snorted fondly and gathered everything he’d used for the shaving to bring back to the bathroom.

When he came back, Grantaire was swearing and struggling with the corset. Enjolras went to him, amused:

“Would you like some help?”

“ _Please,_ ” Grantaire sighed. Enjolras started to tie up the laces from the top. “I’m pretty sure most of the girls do it by themselves,” Grantaire muttered. “I’ll have to ask them - oh, Enjolras, too tight -”

“Sorry,” Enjolras said, immediately correcting his movement. “Is that better?”

“Perfect,” Grantaire hummed.

Once he had reached the bottom of the corset, Enjolras couldn't resist; he let his hands wander even lower, caressing Grantaire’s ass under the shirt that barely hid it in the first place. Grantaire made a pleased sound and Enjolras, raising his eyebrows, slapped him abruptly. Grantaire yelped, his hands flying to the chair, and then he turned slightly his head to look at Enjolras with a grin before arching his back again, even less subtle than before.

Taking it as the clear invitation it was, Enjolras raised his hand again, and spanked him again, steady and harsh, loving the way Grantaire reacted every time, loud and unashamed.

“Did I do something wrong, sir?” he asked after the fifth time, sounding a bit breathless.

“Of course not,” Enjolras immediately said, gripping Grantaire’s hip and stepping even closer, his erection brushing against Grantaire’s ass. “You’ve been nothing but good today; you are the most wonderful wife a man can wish for. I just really like to see your pretty skin all pink. And isn’t it nice, to think that you will feel the reminder of how much i love you when we walk later?”

“Very nice,” Grantaire approved, and moaned when Enjolras spanked him again several times in quick succession. “Enjolras -” he gasped. “Sir, please…”

“Yes, dear?”

“Please,” Grantaire said again, shivering visibly as Enjolras spank him once more. “Please, fuck me.”

“I would love to,” Enjolras said into his ear, bending just enough to kiss Grantaire’s cheek. “But I already promised you to take you on a walk.”

“You have to be joking,” Grantaire half-whined, half-laughed.

“I’m very serious about my engagements towards my wife,” Enjolras declared.

“Your wife wish to feel your cock in her,” Grantaire said.

“Then you should learn to be patient,” Enjolras retorted. “Should I spank you some more so that the lesson is clear?” he asked, slapping Grantaire’s ass again at the same time.

“Ah, probably,” Grantaire gasped, before turning his head towards him, eyes bright and amused, his lips curled up into a soft smile. “But first, may I have a kiss, husband?”

Enjolras obliged with pleasure.

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note about pronouns: While Grantaire definitely feels like a woman at times, and is strongly leaning towards the feminine (and loves, loves, loves being called Enjolras' wife), he still uses he/his pronouns in most circumstances, because that feels right too. (Later, post-fic, she gets more comfortable with she/her too, especially in public, presenting as a woman)
> 
> You can find me on [ tumblr! ](http://somuchbetterthanthat.tumblr.com>%20tumblr!%20</a>)


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